


Midwinter's Eve

by xylaria



Category: The Deed of Paksenarrion - Elizabeth Moon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylaria/pseuds/xylaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a tradition for recruits on Midwinter's Eve. Paks does her best to live up to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midwinter's Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/gifts).



Not being aligned with any particular faith, the company celebrated on the largest holidays Paks discovered. Midwinter, Midsummer, The High Lord’s Day. None of the myriad small festivals she had known growing up or that she had heard about from the other recruits were celebrated or even acknowledged, though some recruits celebrated on their own or in small groups as their duties allowed. 

Midwinter was Paks’ first holiday as a recruit, having signed on after Midsummer. Midwinter’s Eve dawned clear and cold. Paks woke slowly, stiff from having slept in, though it was still early. Around her most of the other recruits were still asleep. She slipped from her bunk and dressed as quietly as she could. After a quick trip to the jacks, she made her way to the mess hall where she served herself from the large pot of porridge being stirred over the fire by the unlucky recruit being punished with holiday kitchen duty. 

There were a handful of other recruits already eating, but she found a seat at an empty corner table next to the far fire and took her time eating her porridge. She was lingering over a mug of sib when Stammel entered the mess hall. 

“May I?” He gestured to the seat across from her with his mug of sib. Paks hastily gulped the mouthful of sib she had just taken. 

“Yes, sir, of course,” Paks choked out, coughing as her hastily swallowed mouth of sib went down the wrong way. Stammel set his mug on the table across from her and thumped her on the back. 

“Thank you, sir,” Paks gasped. Stammel grinned at her an settled into the seat across from her. 

“You’re up early,” he commented, taking a sip of his own mug of sib before starting in on his porridge. Paks shrugged. “Some folks are like that, get used to rising at a certain time and have trouble changing. You’ll learn to sleep when you can on campaign though.” Paks nodded, unconvinced. She had been getting up at dawn her entire life and doubted she would ever be able to sleep much later. 

They sat in silence for a while, Stammel eating his porridge and Paks continuing to sip at her sib. Pushing back his bowel, Stammel picked up his mug of sib. 

“So, did your family have any particular traditions at Midwinter?” Stammel asked. Paks blinked. Family traditions had been a major topic of discussion among the recruits leading up to the holiday, it was to be expected as this was the first time most of them had been away from their family during the holiday. But she hadn’t expected such discussion from her Sergeant, or the other veterans who had presumably spent many holidays far from their families. Seeming to sense her reticence, Stammel continued.

“In my village, there were races and games all day. Foot races, horse races. Catching a greased pig. We would start a pig roasting the day before and eat meat off of it all day before we put out the fires.” Paks nodded. 

“It was similar in Three Firs. The foot races and greased pig that is. We didn’t race horses. There were candies my mom used to make, crystalized honey flavored with heather flowers, that we would eat after snow ball fights.” Paks could taste the candies now, how the honey melted on her tongue, her mouth bursting with flavors of summer heather flowers even as her fingers were numb from snowball fights. 

Stammel nodded and they sat for another minute in silence. Just as Paks was getting ready to get up and leave, Stammel spoke again. 

“My recruit year - now mind you, the stronghold was very different back then - we had an unusually snowy winter. We built a huge fort and held it against an assault of the veterans and sergeants. About two years later there was an even bigger snow and the recruits built sledding ramps from the walls and raced down it on their shields. About two years back we woke up to an impressive set of snow sculptures of the captains. Never did figure out who was our resident artist.” Without waiting for a reply Stammel gathered up his bowl and mug. “Enjoy your holiday.” He said, turning to leave. Paks sat there for a while longer, wondering if Stammel had really just told her to cause some sort of mischief in the snow today. 

 

By the time Paks had cleaned all her equipment and sharpened her blades, most of the other recruits were up and had eaten breakfast. Saben, Vik and Arñe had joined her as she had finished cleaning her dagger, and started sharpening a nick out of her sword. As they started on their own equipment, she relayed what Stammel had told her during breakfast. 

“You really think he was telling us to have a snowball fight?” Saben asked, sounding doubtful. 

“What else would he have been saying?” Vik was practically bouncing now, his blade and whetstone forgotten. “What are we going to do?”

Paks shrugged and looked at Saben and Arñe who both also seemed at a loss for a good thing to do with the small amount of snow present this winter. Vik spouted ideas, each more ridiculous than the last, but by lunch time the only thing anyone had done with the snow was a few lumpy snowmen. 

Lunch was meat and redroots and bread instead of their normal stew, and it was picking up one of the redroots that Paks had an idea. 

 

Paks and Saben stood on the walls, sling shots in hand, while Vik and Arñe waited by some of the snowmen that had since multiplied in the courtyard. They did not have to wait long. Within ten minutes Stammel passed out of the stables, heading towards the barracks, Devlin at his side. 

Vik looked up and met Paks eyes’. She held up her hand and counted down. When her fist closed they fired. The snowmen lined up liked parading troops suddenly sprouted wounds that dripped blood and gore. Devlin and Stammel both had their swords out and were looking around for the attackers before they realized it was the snowmen, not them, that were under attack. It took them another moment to realized that the blood and gore were redroot juice and peels, which had exploded from their carefully wrapped balls on impact with the snow. 

Slowly they sheathed their swords, starting to move back towards the barracks. Before turning away Stammel glanced up at the wall catching Paks’ eye for just a moment, a slight grin tugging at his lips.


End file.
